


MM Angst Week 2018

by Lokiiwood



Series: Mystic Messenger Lost Days [4]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15621216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokiiwood/pseuds/Lokiiwood
Summary: It's Angst Week! August 6th - August 12th, organized by https://mysmeangstweek.tumblr.com/. Angst, angst, angst! I'm probably not doing much for this event, but I did make a drabble or two so here it is!Day 4: [Drabble] Vanderwood/ReaderDay 5: [Short] Vanderwood





	1. Day 4: Rose-Tinted Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst Week Day 4: **Rejection** || Loneliness
> 
> "I came to say goodbye."

It’s not that you believed in fairytales or happy endings, it’s just you figured things would work out like they’re supposed to. You weren’t always going to get what you wanted, but you thought maybe— _just_ maybe—you’d at the very least get what you _needed_. But, what you needed you were always confused about, conflating with intense desires that came and went in your life.

And even knowing that—you were sure, at the very least, that you needed Vanderwood.

Rough around the edges, but with gentle hands and soft lips.

Secretive and manipulative, but always straight forward with you—he was never afraid to tell you “No,” and “We can’t” and “This won’t last.”

Dangerous and deadly, but the safest arms that you knew of.

The months went by in a blur, a ball of passion and confusion as he and Seven constantly disappeared with no explanation to figure out the Agency and Jihyun mess. The mint-haired beauty you cared so deeply about you realized with deep sadness you weren’t in-love with. When he slept, you smiled down at him, but always—always left his side to accompany Vanderwood. Maybe you should’ve realized then that that’s how it’d always be—you chasing, him allowing, tolerating.

But you were in denial, blinded by the rose-tinted glasses you wore at all times of the day. Rose-tinted glasses Vanderwood had adamantly demanded you eradicate before you get too attached. Rose-tinted glasses you couldn’t remove, refused to remove, even when Vanderwood came stumbling into your house, dragging red across the carpet.

“Water,” he demanded. He pushed you away from him and moved to settle down on your couch by himself. You ran to fulfill his request, panic overtaking your senses, too afraid to cry for him. You lifted the glass to his mouth, but he refused you again. Vanderwood took it out of your hands and drank it himself. You went to get a towel instead, letting him wrap it around his bleeding abdomen.

“What should I do? I don’t have any first aid…” You asked, quietly.

Vanderwood shook his head, not looking you in the eye as he continued to gulp down liquid.

So you waited some more, sitting at his side, unable to reach out and touch him like usual—a wall blocked your intentions.

“I came to say goodbye. I didn’t want to, but…I came anyway.”

“Goodbye?”

You ignored the wall, reaching your hand to his knee, feeling his muscles tighten—rejection.

“Seven and I both…we have to go. But he’s not saying goodbye, just me, because I’m an idiot.”

“No…”

Vanderwood let you cry, not moving his hands to comfort you, to hold you, to tell you he was sorry. But deep down, you knew he wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he lied to you—the first lie you’d ever heard from him.

You shook your head and he sighed, hissing immediately after as he doubled over from pain.

“Van?” You gasped. He waved you away.

“I’m fine, I’m fine…but I have to go.”

“Van, please, don’t do this, don’t leave me.”

“I told you not to get attached.”

“You knew I was in-love with you!” You sobbed, your hands falling away from him.

“That was your mistake,” he snapped, slowly standing up from the couch, pressing the cup on your table.

He limped towards the door and you chased after him, tugging at his jacket.

“Van, did you ever, even a little…?”

The door opened to the freezing, rainy winds of the night and Vanderwood slumped through, turning around to regard you for the last time.

“No. Goodbye.”


	2. Day 5: Do You Know Her?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst Week Day 5: **Mistakes** || Fear
> 
> “Goodnight, Ji,” she muttered, walking back towards the door. She stopped once her hand reached for the handle and skipped back to him, hugging his leg tightly.  
> “I love you!” She giggled, rushing away before he could process her unpredictable behavior.  
> A warmth filled his chest and he frowned. Stupid. Sentimental.
> 
> Content Warnings: Death, blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to the Vandershrine~ An old, random idea when we were talking about fluff ideas...and then I made an angst ending WHEW. SORRY. This is definitely what they wanted and begged me to do /s

He thought the first day would be the hardest—keeping up the fake identity, getting used to genuinely attending school while hunting at night, dealing with his host family…but he was wrong.

It was easy, and pleasant. They welcomed him with open arms. It was like a celebration, a birthday party for his arrival. Not that he’d ever had one of those before, but surely balloons and cake was a birthday thing, right?

It was unnerving how relaxed they made him, despite him not being fluent in Spanish.

“We’re so happy you’re here,” they said in broken Korean. They didn’t know he could speak English, it wasn’t in his profile after all. But they had practiced and tried for his first day.

They spoke slowly for him in their native tongue, always encouraging, never condescending. The wife was gentle, a school teacher with the patience to battle a god. The husband was introverted but liked to laugh, a man who did architecture. The child was maybe five years old, a happy little girl who loved to make a mess and bake—a dangerous combination.

The first week he came home with a broken toe.

The second week he had to balance a stakeout with biology homework.

The third week was a family cookout, probably worse than the toe.

As the weeks went on, it got harder, the days longer, the mission more dangerous—far more dangerous than the Agency had anticipated. But it didn’t matter to them, he had to continue.

He laid in his bed, packed and ready for the night, waiting, trying to piece it all together. It was to be a shootout. People would die—maybe even him.

“Ji?”

Vanderwood snapped up, then relaxed upon seeing it was just Ula, who had come in without knocking again. God, it terrified him to not have locks, or at the very least a creak to a door. His situation was an assassin’s fantasy.

“Hello, Ula,” he sighed, giving her a small smile.

“More lessons!” She cheered, brightening up. She used short sentences with him now, when before she didn’t slow down her speech or her sentences. Now they could somewhat communicate.

Vanderwood checked his watch. He had some time. There was always time for sweet Ula. And besides, her lessons were incredibly helpful.

She ran to his bedside and he snatched her up, putting her on the edge with him.

Ula giggled and showed him her hand—postcards?

No. Flashcards. He chuckled and took them. “Thank you.”

He looked over the first one, a crude drawing of a comb, and Ula jammed her finger into it.

“ _El peine_ ,” she nodded. “ _Elllll pei-neeee_ ,” she drawled out, looking up at him earnestly.

He repeated it back to her slowly until she was satisfied and clapped.

“So… _La peinla_?” He asked, guessing the other form.

Ula looked shocked and he bit his tongue to suppress a laugh.

“No! Wrong! _La peinilla_!”

He cocked his head to the side in mock confusion. “ _La penlla_?”

“No! No! No!” She furrowed her eyebrows, taking the flashcard and shoving it towards his face.

“ _La peinilla_!”

Ula turned the card over to the written forms and he studied it, squinting his eyes as if in deep concentration.

“Hmm…la…pein…” She nodded her head vigorously, encouraging him.

“…villa?” She nearly screamed and jumped up on the bed, clutching her flashcard to her chest. Vanderwood burst out laughing and sighed. “ _La peinilla_ , ok!” Ula gasped and glared at him, telling him he was some sort of liar or animal. Well, he could accept that. His watch beeped and he paused. Vanderwood put down his new flashcards and helped Ula off the bed, ruffling her hair and giving her a sad smile.

“Time for bed.”

She frowned and glanced over at his bag. He ignored it.

“Goodnight, Ula.”

“Goodnight, Ji,” she muttered, walking back towards the door. She stopped once her hand reached for the handle and skipped back to him, hugging his leg tightly.

“I love you!” She giggled, rushing away before he could process her unpredictable behavior.

A warmth filled his chest and he frowned. Stupid. Sentimental.

//¿?\\\

He shouldn’t have even come back in this state. The cover-up would’ve been easy—out late studying or made some new friends or even gotten lost. They were normal excuses the normal Ramires family would’ve accepted, even if not liked and lectured him on.

The climb back through the window made him throw up blood on his bed as he landed. Vanderwood cursed to himself, praying the noise didn’t wake anyone up. They would panic and ask questions he couldn’t answer if they saw him bleeding out, gutted like a boar on his bed.

He laid there, his eyes beginning to close. Just five minutes, then he could go to the bathroom and start stitching himself back up. He moved over on his side. No, five minutes wouldn’t do. If he fell asleep he’d probably just die like this. He took a deep breath. He could do this— _had_ to do this, there wasn’t really an option.

Vanderwood groaned as he stood up, freezing when he saw his door open.

Ula stood there, eyes wide.

Shit.

“Ul..” He hacked, unable to even finish saying her name. He blinked his eyes back open but she was gone.

Fuck. Fuck. So much for them not seeing him like this. He didn’t have the strength to chase her and made his way to the bathroom, dragging himself over the sink and pulling out the first aid kit that he left in the cabinet. His bloodied finger stumbled over the opium he’d hidden for emergencies at the bottom of the kit. Shit, what type was this again? It didn’t fucking matter, he needed to take it now since it was a pill and would take some to take effect. He ran the faucet and popped it into his mouth, swallowing quickly before making his way through the alcohol, needles, wrappings…

He didn’t remember even stitching himself up, nor hiding the bloodied bedsheets in a wad to be washed in the morning. But what Vanderwood did recall was the feel of Ula’s delicate hand on his. Shit. Ula. He gasped awake and looked down at his hand.

A…bandage? A regular, kids bandage with tiny rockets and smiley faces on it.

Mr. and Mrs. Ramires hadn’t come for him and Ula hadn’t told, simply went to get him a fucking bandage. He laughed, too numb to feel the pain but knowing he shouldn’t lest he break his side stitches. Vanderwood squeezed his eyes shut.

Ula must really love him.

//¿?\\\

Ula never told a soul about it.

Vanderwood wondered if she was really that naïve, if she really believed he had a simple ‘accident’ and was all better now. Regardless, he had worn the bandage with pride, much to her delight. It was a shame the semester was ending and he was going ‘home’ to his ‘family’ in Korea soon.

The mission was over that hard night as far as he was concerned. But he went through the motions, for once, glad for it. For the first time, perhaps he understood what being in a family was like. They didn’t judge him, they were only concerned for his well-being. They asked him about girlfriends—boyfriends, when he didn’t show any interest—about marriage, about his goals after returning to Korea, about how he felt about Argentina, and when he was coming back to visit.

They went to get him one last ‘gift’ from their favorite bakery, despite his reassurance it was unnecessary.

They left with good intentions and never came back.

After the first 12 hours, Vanderwood knew they were probably dead. He went around the house, cleaning up traces of himself while Ula absentmindedly played as usual.

“When’s mom coming back?” She asked.

“Probably tomorrow,” he lied, a smile on his face. It was time to go.

After 24 hours, Ryu Jidae had never stepped foot inside the Ramires’ home. Vanderwood cooked and packaged meals for Ula to heat up, saying he needed to be away for a little at school. She cried, telling him not to leave her in the house alone while her parents were gone. He promised to watch out for her. And he did, in the distance, binoculars and all.

48 hours later, his target appeared in the night, edging closer towards the Ramires’ home. Vanderwood popped his gum and steadied his sniper rifle. He recognized the person from that day. They’d survived? So it was his fault for not making sure. The Ramires had died because of him. There was nothing he could do about it now, but he could do this—he could at the very least protect Ula.

The bullet flew in the night, straight through the skull. The figure slumped over and Vanderwood waited, waited, waited for any backup. None came. He left his set-up and approached the body, removing the bloodied mask to check the face. They were Korean. Figures. But he wouldn’t make any mistakes, none ever again. His boot kicked at their neck and he flinched, hearing the sickening crunch of bones. No one would ever survive an attack against him again.

72 hours later, the police finally came. Several cars pulled up to the house, and Ula answered the door, shaking her head at the officer’s questions. They didn’t know what to do. How do you tell a child her parents suddenly were never coming back home?

Even from the distance, he could hear her cries. He stared down at the ground, trying to process his lack of emotion. Vanderwood thought he’d feel guilty, that he’d break down upon the realization that he really had fucked up. Ula would have to live with someone else. They had another family barbecue coming up, canceled permanently now. He remembered the way Mr. Ramires hit his shoulder, making him flinch and panic, only to observe he did that with everyone he liked. He hit their shoulder, and called them an endearing nickname. Mr. Ramires had called him son. Mrs. Ramires had no such nicknames, happily washing his sheets and praising him for being so clean and orderly. She didn’t allow anyone to eat dinner until he was present, and she always kissed his cheek when he came home.

And now they were gone, mutilated and dropped off somewhere because they had cared about him, because they had welcomed him into their home.

But he felt nothing. Why? Was he a monster?

He didn’t realize what he was doing until a man yelled for him. Vanderwood blinked. He had been walking towards the house, right into view of the police officers.

One ran to him, speaking too fast for him to understand. Realizing he was foreign, they slowed down, asking him simple questions. He said no to all of them. He’d simply gotten lost, he didn’t know anything about the Ramires.

“Ji! Ji!” He froze up, ignoring the calling of his name until it became obvious to everyone Ula was pointing at him. Appearing confused, he turned to her, feeling the ache in his chest become something more painful—more real than the numb.

“Do you know her?” The officer asked.

It was the last question, and he said it with his eyes not leaving hers.

_I’m sorry, Ula._

“Sorry, I don’t know her.”

_So sorry, Ula._


End file.
